


Kalki

by CarminaVulcana



Category: Baahubali (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 16:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17164970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarminaVulcana/pseuds/CarminaVulcana
Summary: Prompt- Dystopian AU, with a world of the author’s choosingDo not want- Evil! BhallaI don't know if this fits the bill of what you wanted. But this is my first time writing anything in a dystopic setting. I'd love to know what you think.





	Kalki

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queenofmahishmati](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofmahishmati/gifts).



_The ground under his feet felt unsteady and the grey haze that covered the sky did not offer any answers to his questions; questions he didn’t even know to ask._

_Was this the end? Brought to them in a burst of fire and lightning._

_Hundreds of fields; burnt to cinders. Miles upon miles of forestland; swept away by the raging waves of the ocean. Majestic stone arches, homes, temples, and state buildings; reduced to rubble. Hundreds of thousands of people. Gone. In a matter of minutes._

_Amarendra Baahubali did not know it but centuries later, textbooks would call it the disaster that changed the course of global history. More specifically, the history of the region that would come to be known as Asia. The massive meteor hit would be called 'Thanatos' by later historians who would write lengthy papers on what might have been had the meteor not hit. For one, they would debate about the ancient and medieval cultures of societies that had been made extinct by the disaster-- China, Burma, Bhutan, Vietnam, Cambodia, and Thailand.  They would also debate about the impact of the disaster on societies that survived but with extensive damage; like India._

_While it was worth noting that thanks to this calamity, some of the greatest minds in India would not even be born—Ram Mohan Roy, JC Bose, Meerabai, Emperor Akbar, Emperor Shah Jahan, Rabindranath Tagore, Pandita Ramabai, Rani Lakshmibai, Guru Nanak, Ilyaraja, M.S. Subbulakshami, Balasaraswathi, and many others—Baahubali’s concern was more immediate. And rightfully so. He could not lament for the lost future. Especially when the present so desperately needed all the help it could get._

_To Baahubali, it did not matter that he didn’t know what caused an earthquake  of such extreme magnitude. It bothered him that the powerful tremors had triggered several volcanoes and a tsunami in the ocean. But in hindsight, even having that knowledge would have been useless. Human beings were meant to bow before nature’s fury and no one could change that. What mattered was if anyone else had survived the devastation._

_For weeks after the earth tore itself apart and the deluge of destruction flung everything he knew away from him, he wandered around like a lost soul. He held dying toddlers in his arms as they breathed their last, bleeding to death or succumbing to infection that had gone too far to control. For the first few days, his conscience did not allow him to leave the dead without giving them a cremation of the sorts. But then came the hunger and the need for firewood as fuel to cook with… that, and the sheer scale of death which was impossible to cope with._

_He cremated no more people. Every splinter of firewood he found, was saved in a little dirt pouch. The larger trees and branches that hadn’t been charred by lightning, were few and far between. Whenever he chanced upon those, he rolled them to a safe place which he vowed to remember. Sometimes, he found people who had miraculously survived. He shared the location of his “fuel reserves” with them and told them he needed to keep looking for others who might have survived. If he found more people, he would return with them._

_And always, the question that haunted him was if Devasena had survived? What had become of their unborn child?_

_He did not dare to think of Mahishmati. The dense cloud of smoke in the distance hung heavy like a wall of despair. That was where Mahishmati was… or used to be._

_Had mother survived? Katappa? What about Bhalla?_

_He longed to go closer to that ominous pillar of smog. He did not wish to believe it, but his mind knew. In all likelihood, there was nothing and no one left in Mahishmati._

_But he needed to know. His helplessness aside, the grief and the pain of not knowing was too much. He may have been exiled by mother for his so-called transgressions. But his love and regard for her hadn’t changed._

_XXXXX_

_Sivagami lived. Hidden in the secret tunnel behind the palace. That was the only place in the entire palace that had stood steady against the earthquake. Designed for quick escape or shelter during an invasion, there were some basic supplies that had kept them afloat through the worst of the disaster. But now that the immediate threat was over, she worried incessantly about her family._

_Bhalla, injured but alive, rested uneasily beside her. Katappa, exhausted but unharmed, stood at the mouth of the tunnel that opened into a cavern under the Neganikumbhini waterfall._

_“Do you think Baahu survived?” she asked him yet again._

_“I believe in my heart that he did,” Katappa answered tiredly._

_What else could he say. It was an empty reassurance but then again, the Rajmata was looking for succor, not facts. Besides, he did not have any facts to offer. The comforting non-truths would have to do for now._

_“Rajmata, we should leave now and try and find any other survivors.”_

_“Bhalla is in no condition to travel.”_

_“But he needs a physician to help him. Slowly but surely, these injuries will kill him. And we have been holed up here for more than four days. This sanctuary has only one last bag of dried fruits left. And no water. We need provisions.”_

_“I will stay here with him. You must go out and look for survivors. And provisions.”_

_Katappa bowed deeply and hobbled out of the hideout._

_The sight that greeted him was beyond his worst imaginations. While the sun shone brightly upon the earth, he felt all warmth drain from his blood as the chill of total silence assaulted him. Steeling himself against the tide of hopelessness, he walked on. He ignored the horror that littered the ruined streets and found himself rummaging through rotting groceries stuck under piles of broken stone and wood._

_A bag of apples. Two sacks of rice. A coconut. A piece of jaggery. A small bottle of oil. A raw mango. Six potatoes._

_The meager supplies were an unexpected bounty. He quickly tied them together in a bundle and started to make his way back to the cave._

_XXXXX_

_The tribe’s homes were in ruins. However, they were beyond grateful that everyone had survived.Being on higher ground had saved them from the flooding and the fire at least. And now that all was calm, they had to begin the painful task of rebuilding._

_Sanga, the tribe’s chieftainess looked at the young woman they had rescued from the brambles on Jeevanadhi’s bank. Poor woman was still unconscious. But at least she wasn’t bleeding anymore. Unfortunately, they had been unable to save her child._

_A few hours later she woke up._

_“M… my baby?” her words were slurred but her question was obvious._

_“Easy there, my dear,” Sanga said as she raised a cup of water to the injured woman’s lips. “You are still very ill.”_

_“I..I.. c...c...cannot feel my baby,” Devasena managed to say. “Please…” She tried to get up but the effort was to much for her sore and traumatised body._

_“We could not save your baby,” Sanga said at last, her voice soft and compassionate. “We found you stuck in the brambles and bushes on the river bank. And it seemed to us that you had already miscarried. There was… no body. I am sorry.”_

_For a long moment, Devasena did not respond._

_“Where am I?” she asked finally. She vividly remembered the moment when she was swept away by the giant waves. Miraculously, instead of being carried deeper into the waters, she had been tossed into a river. And these people had found her._

_But her pain was so sharp. She had no idea if her husband had survived. And she could not bring herself to believe that her child was dead. And yet, that agonizing truth was a yawning emptiness in her belly that screamed into the lacerated void of her soul._

XXXXX

An excerpt from NCERT Grade VIII textbook of medieval Indian history

_Several small kingdoms perished in the Thanatos, or the meteor strike that Indian scholars have called the Kalki. Among the kingdoms that were destroyed, was the Mahishmati empire. It extended roughly from the modern state of Odisha to the state we now know as Andhra Pradesh. Unfortunately, very little is known about Mahishmati. Most official records of the kingdom would have been made on cloth rolls and tree bark manuscripts. Most of them were presumably destroyed in the Thanatos. However, local legends narrate interesting tales to enthrall naive tourists who visit the ruins of the ancient Mahishmati capital._

Bindya Devan, a young student of history, had always been fascinated by the unknown story of Mahishmati. The above passage had been cut out from her old school textbook. It now sat at a prominent spot on her moodboard.

“There is more to you,”she whispered to no one in particular. Her eyes traveled to the newspaper clipping next to a crayon drawing that she had made as a child. The drawing itself was mediocre, as good or as bad as one would expect from a 4-year-old. But the content of the picture was unusual. A princess. Lost. For good. 

The newspaper clipping from a local Telugu daily showed an article about the last custodian of the Ambarasa heritage. An old man who lived in a broken hut. The black and white photograph was hazy in terms of details but it was the background of the portrait that gave her a lot to think about. There were answers in the walls of the old man's hut. 

Well, maybe her upcoming trip to the Mahishmati ruins would bring her some answers. Maybe even the “tour guides” and “touts” would have something of value to tell her.

Dressed in a chikankari salwar kameez, a multicolored mirror dupatta, chunky silver earrings, and a large serpentine bindi, she looked the part of a journalist or someone important in the liberal arts scene. But really, it was just an act. She needed to look convincing for what she was about to do.

However, even introducing herself as a big writer with an American company did not help her. In fact, it made things more difficult for her.

Several of the touts tried to lure her with outlandish claims which would have been laughable if they weren’t so outrageously disrespectful.

_“Oh madam, the true story of Sivagami Devi and her secret slave lover.”_

_“Madam, I am from the lineage of Mahishmati’s last king Vikramadeva. Direct descendent. For only 200 rupees, I will give you the most accurate story.”_

_“Come here madam… look I have a government certification. I can tell you all about the Kalakeya tribe that crushed Mahishmati in battle, just days before the calamity.”_

The cacophony of “madam ji, madam ji” and offers of the “juicy, exclusive truth” followed her as she determinedly walked to the far end of lane. An old man sat on a broken charpoy, outside a dilapidated hut.

“I have no stories for you,” he said before she could say anything.

“But you are an Ambarasa," she retorted. "You are a direct descendent of the Amburi tribe and the last custodian of their heritage.”

“So? The Amburi people never had any connection to Mahishmati. If you want me to tell you of our folk festivals or the Amburai dance, I will tell you all about those.”

“No, I wish to know about Mahishmati.”

“Are you deaf, madam? or daft? or simply arrogant? I just told you I know nothing about Mahishmati.”

“Then why did you get so defensive that you started calling me names?”

“I am an old man. I speak my mind.”

“Then speak your mind.”

“Why do you think I know anything about Mahishmati?”

“Because that symbol painted in the corner of your hut is not an Amburi symbol. It is the shield of the ancient Kuntala kingdom, which also got destroyed in the Kalki. But no one talks about it because no one knows Kuntala even existed.”

“Then how do you know?”

“I know because my family has a small copper plate that has been in our family for generations. It has the date of the marriage of Kuntala’s princess Devasena with the crown prince of Mahishmati, Amarendra Baahubali.”

“Oh so you know about Baahubali. I have never heard anyone, including the so-called intellectuals mention his name… and Devasena, wow… they don’t even know that name. They do know of Bhallaladeva. One of the stone edicts in the city mentions him as a war hero who killed a fearsome tribal chief in some battle.” The old man chuckled darkly before standing up from the charpoy. “This conversation demands a cup of coffee and a samosa. It is a very good story, even if you decide it is too far fetched to believe."

“I will be the judge of that,” Bindya said crisply.

She quickly made her way to the coffee stall located a few feet away and purchased two glasses of hot, sweet filter coffee and four samosas.

“Ready to begin?” she said to the old man as she handed him the coffee.

“Yes,” he said and took a sip. “Perfect. Now you have earned the right to the last of the Amburi tribe’s secrets.”

“Our tribemother Sanga rescued Queen Devasena from some bushes near the bank of Jeevanadhi. And don’t say Jeevanadhi doesn’t exist. It does but it won’t reveal itself to those who are unworthy of her sacred touch. It was the immense divine power of the river’s water that saved Devasena’s life. But Mai Sanga believed her child had not survived. We believe the child survived and that somewhere, even among us, his descendants roam free. And as the children of Baahubali’s good name, they make their presence known even if their identity has perhaps been lost forever, even to them. But I digress. For most people, the story of Mahishmati ends with the great calamity and while no historians have been able to confirm who all survived from that family, this question is an easy one for us. They all survived. But they never found each other.”

“That is very intriguing” Bindya remarked. She was skeptical about the existence and location of Jeevenadhi but she decided not to argue. After all, some historians did believe that Jeevanadhi, once a mighty river, changed course and merged with the Bhagirathi due to the changes caused by the Kalki. 

No, this wasn't worth arguing over. Instead, she wanted to know more about the people whose stories were apparently washed away by the tragedy that also wiped away that mostly mythical river.

“If you believe they never found each other, then how do you know they survived?” she asked.

“Easy," the old man answered. "34 kilometres to the east of this exact spot, is a village called Mahishamanthanam. There is a small Sivasakthi temple there which has existed for at least 2000 years. Local upper caste communities don't go there anymore. But all kinds of other people from far and wide come there, looking for their lost and missing loved ones. The priest of that temple has a box with centuries worth of memory pieces in it. You know what is a memory piece? A memory piece is small stone that is unique to the existence of a person. It is our tradition in these parts to believe that anytime someone prays to find a lost member of their family, they should leave a memory piece in the box as a reminder to the gods to hear their prayers. If the prayers are answered, then the pieces are removed But if the prayers remain unanswered, then the pieces stay in the box. Only members of the royal family were ever allowed gold memory pieces. Today, among the hundreds of glass, pewter, silver, and clay pieces, are 16 gold pieces; each one of which represents someone who was lost. Mind you, in some cases, the same person may be represented by more pieces if several members of one family were trying to find the same person. You are an educated woman. I leave you to do the math. Thank you for the coffee and the samosas. I hope you enjoyed the story.”

And with that, he stood up again and walked into his hut without waiting for a response from Bindya.

Troubled, the young woman returned to her apartment. She did do the math and the numbers told her nothing. She didn’t even know who the other characters in the story were or how many there were in total. Did Bhallaladeva have a wife? Did Sivagami’s husband survive? Was the chief royal slave counted among the gold pieces, that is, if the rumors about him and Sivagami were to be believed?

While she had no answers, she had even more questions than before. She felt angry and frustrated.

But more than anything else, she felt sorrow for the people lost in the Kalki.

People in all ages and across the seven continents did rebuild their societies even after seemingly dystopic catastrophes. Such was the nature of the human spirit. Her own existence was proof of that. But while in the grand scheme of things, neither utopia nor dystopia lasted forever, the individuals caught in them remained suspended in the consequences for eternity. Much like the memory pieces gathering dust in the temple for 1100 years.

 


End file.
